Vampire shorties
by DragonsDeadAndDancing
Summary: A collection of vampire stories, from Skyrim to Oblivion and back again, in various styles and lengths.
1. Sickness

**Inspiration for Don't cry and Top died. In the basement, probably. It's smelling strange down there…**

**Anyway! This is a collection of one-shots and less which have no connection but the topic: VAMPIRES! Vampires have recently possessed me and no amount of garlic can drive them out.**

**This stuff will probably never come in any of my stories, so I'm posting it. Just so.**

**Bethesda's. We know.**

He walked in the cave, waited till his eyes had adapted to the darkness, and attacked.

There were two; one Altmer, one Dunmer, both of them female. They hadn't heard him come, but when he entered their shadows, they turned around with a hiss. The High Elf charged with an axe in her hand, while the Dark Elf stayed behind. She raised her hand, and the man felt his strength leaving him.

His right hand caught the Altmer's, the one that held the weapon. She screamed in frustration when her axe hit the wall and fell from her grip. Her left hand shot at the man's throat. With nearly incredible speed he drew his head back, and her sharp claws ripped at his cheek. He felt blood run over his face and with a smile, he threw the woman against the ground, like she weighed not more than her axe.

When the sound of her snapping neck was gone, he suddenly held a crossbow in his hands. The bolt hit the other woman between the eyes and, like her sister, she disintegrated into fine grey ash.

The man took a small, leather-bound journal from his pocket. He dipped a finger in the wounds on his cheek and smeared some of the blood on a page, next to a similar red stain, then took another sample from his hand. Carefully he described his fight in a narrow but clearly legible handwriting on the next page.

In the next hours he cleaned the front part of the cave; he carried the women's ashes out as well as the remains of their victims, washed the bloodstains as good as possible out of the bed, brought candles and blankets, cleaned one of the desks. When he was finished, he lay down and closed his eyes.

For the next three days, he mostly slept. After every two hours, he would check his temperature, take a blood sample and test a few reactions, for example on sun- or moonlight and the taste of blood. He wrote down his symptoms: loss of concentration, exhaustion, near the end of the second day fever.

When the last hours had come, he suddenly woke from a nightmare. Heat had been flowing through his body all day long, but now he felt like bathing in lava. He wanted to write it down, but when he reached for the journal, he was hardly able to move a finger. His hand fell back on the furs of the bed and he concentrated on breathing.

The man didn't have to wait for long: The heat increased further, every fibre of his body seemed on fire. His muscles clenched and he shivered.

When it was over, he opened his eyes and smiled in the darkness, and his eyes glowed softly like new-lit candles.


	2. Mercy

**This is a true story. Mercy isn't a gift given easily, even by Stendarr's servants.**

**Violence.**

They are behind me, torches in their hands and murder in their eyes. Their light cuts through the night like a blade cuts through flesh, leaving no shadows behind me, nowhere to hide.

I run. Away from the two men, away from the dawn that will finally come. The branches of the trees slap my face and my hands. Some of the whips even find a way through my armour, beat my skin in a steady rhythm that makes me almost feel like I still have a pounding heart.

Suddenly a root catches my foot. I fall forwards. The floor hits me like it is made of solid stone and drives the air I don't need from my lungs. The fall has stunned me; I try to get on my feet and when it doesn't work, I crawl on knees and elbows. I can't think anymore, the need to get away pulses through my body.

I see the mace a moment before it comes down and somehow manage to shield my face with my left arm. The bones shatter with a sickening sound and I desperately cry out at the sudden rush of pain: "Mercy! Mercy, please!"

The weapon comes down again. I roll aside and scream again: "I yield, I yield!" But they just laugh.

How did I get to my feet? I don't know, but I run again. Their torches are blinding me, too near and too bright for my eyes to adjust to the twilight. I don't see the slope until it's too late.

I can't stop. I tumble down the hill, leave a broad gap in the small bushes that cover the ground. Stones tear my skin open and my broken arm is twisted and thrown around. My own screams seem to deafen me.

This time I can't get up again. I lie on the ground, feeling the pain filling every fibre of my body and the stolen blood trickle from my veins.

The sky above me is bright. Soon the sun will rise. I ought to stand up and run, but I know it's too late.

"Please", I whisper before the mace comes down once again.


	3. A Dream

You float on his back in a red sea under a black sky. The crimson waves hold your naked body gently, like a mother holds her child. But suddenly the support is gone and the water pulls you under. You stare in the sky now filled with grey clouds forming a spiral over you. Then the sea closes over your head and the liquid – it tastes delicious, not like ordinary water – streams in your lungs. You can't breathe!

**AN: I bet I'm not the only one who misses the vampire dreams you had in Oblivion. I have a few ideas and hope they'll be as authentic as possible - creepy, short, strange, weird.**

**I hope this wasn't too long, hamster!**


	4. Sleep Tight

**I had ****_way_**** too much fun writing this...**

**Mostly playing around with words, trying to conjure atmosphere etc.**

The woman is lying in her bed. Her mind does not wander Vaermina's realm tonight; she is sleeping soundly, dreamless, peaceful.

The quiet sound of a clicking lockpick inside the lock disturbs the silence but she does not stir. After a bit of wriggling the lock gives way to the intruder's tools; the door of the two-room hut opens soundlessly - the hinges are well-oiled - and closes again after a figure has stepped inside. The dark shape swiftly moves towards the woman's bedroom.

She is lying on the side, blanket drawn over her chest and tucked under one are. Her chin-long dark red hair leves her pale neck exposed. For some time - an eternity, maybe, or just a few seconds - the intruder looms over her, simply looking, then the figure bows over her and almost gently sinks a pair of long, white fangs in her throat.

At first, the woman seems to be unaware of her blood leaving her body, but suddenly her eyes snap open. A startled yelp never leves her mouth: The intruder's right hand clamps down on her lips as quickly as a serpent's strike while the left one catches her wrists with the same incredible speed. Effortlessly the figure holds her down and carefully eases the teeth out of her neck, avoiding to rip the flesh.

Again the intruder simply looks at the trembling woman in the bed before bending down a second time. This time, the mouth doesn't find her veins, though, but her ear. Quietly the shape begins to whisper softly.

A few words later the woman's tense muscles relax. The lips under the intruder's hand curls in a lazy smile while the alert look vanishes from her eyes and her eyelids close halfway. Satisfied, the figure loosens the grip and bites her again, provoking no response.

When they find her, days later, it's hard to see in her decaying features. But more than one person swears she is smiling.


	5. Screaming

Celann wished the screaming would stop.

The creature was chained to the floor of the circular entrance hall and had been screaming since dawn. Well, the first few minutes it had managed to keep quiet, but then threats and curses began, some in languages none of the Dawnguard understood, only to be replaced by begging for mecy. It had tried to bargain, shouted names and locations and promised more if they would only close the shutter over the window high above in the roof. That ended soon enough, after an hour maybe.

Celann could hear the strain in the creature's horase voice. It sounded animalic. Raw, inhuman. Ceaseless - the thing died a long time ago, it had no need for breath nor mercy, Divines only knew how many innocent people it had already killed. No mercy.

Still, the screaming wrecked his nerves. The voice echoed through the fort's huge, almost empty halls, was amplified and twisted. Something as evil as that thing wouldn't sound that miserable on its own, Celann was sure.

He took another sip of his mead, but it tasted like nothing. He wasn't able to enjoy their victory like the others.

Maybe, if the screaming would stop.

**I don't know why Celann. His name just popped into my head, so I took him. Please tell me if it was good or bad. Two klicks with the mouse, three or four letters, that's not that much of an effort.**


	6. Two more Dreams

**2 more dreams**

You are walking on the road. Your skin is dry and feels like paper, stretched taut over your bones. You barely can raise your legs for another step, but you know you must go on. The sun rises in the east and its rays ignite your thin body. You do not have the strength to scream.

* * *

You are surrounded by wet, cool earth. You can feel the insects crawl over your body, the pressure of their tiny legs adding to the weight of the heavy soil around you. You can't see anything, but you don't mind. You are comfortable tired.


	7. Mistake

**Review? Anyone?**

She lies on the small cot in her cell, pressing the pillow over her ears in a desperate attempt to block out the noises coming from outside but oh Divines she can still hear it they are so quiet how can she still hear it? Somebody is moaning softly in agony. Who? It doesn't matter as long as whatever is happening to him doesn't happen to her. She is almost grateful for the iron bars, although their safety is only an illusion.

And then, finally, the moaning stops and she shouldn't be that grateful, really, she shouldn't, but then she feels footsteps walking away. There is no sound, more like a sensation, a feeling of nearer and farther away – she has seen a mountain lion once and it had felt the same; she simply knows it's there.

When she hasn't heard or felt anything for a few minutes, she stands up. She has managed to keep a few lockpicks hidden from the guards and is now going to put them to some good use; after all, she hasn't killed that beggar to rot forever in prison but to get into the Dark Brotherhood, everyone knows how the rumours go.

Her hands are trembling so violently the first of the delicate metal rods snaps as soon as it touches the lock; with a curse, she puts the tools down, wipes her sweaty palms on her rough-spun clothes, takes a few deep breaths. She's almost out, only this little door, then a run to the Imperial City, a little bit of hiding maybe until the Brotherhood has found her.

At her second attempt, the lock opens smoothly.

She walks out of her cell and down the corridor, not looking left or right, working out several ways how to get past the guards, they are her problem now, not some strange noises the other prisoners make. Yet when her hand brushes the door handle, she turns around again.

She's been born and bred in Skingrad, knows all the tales children tell each other about the Count. He eats people, some say. He skins them. He sells their souls to the Daedra.

And now there is this stone door, a secret door, slightly ajar.

Just a look. Just a second.

She's going to be an assassin. She can handle herself.

It's dark beyond the door and silent. There's another corridor, leading farther into the castle.

Where does it lead to?

No, she has to-

The feeling is back, _in_ her back, and she whirls around and sees him.

"That was a mistake, girl."


	8. Stupid

It was well past midnight when the man arrived at the lumber mill. Despite the clouded sky and the hood of his black robe shadowing his face, he immediately found the door to the main house. When he knocked, he had to wait for some time until he heard the sound of a key in the lock.

The door was opened by a pretty Nord in fur armour, with dark blonde hair and a scar across her right cheek and eye. "What?", she asked annoyed.

With a swift gesture, the man pushed the hood back from his face, revealing brown hair and a face that seemed to be made entirely of angles. The pale skin and thick bones suggested he had been a Nord once too, but his glowing eyes told another story.

"Oh." The woman did a step back, which the man used to enter the house. Inside was a Nord clad in scaled armour. He rose at the sight of the intruder and put a hand on the hilt of his axe, but froze when he saw the man's eyes.

A smile flashed over the stranger's face, as quick and sharp as a lightning. "My apologies for...assaulting you like this in the middle of the night, but hunters are hard on my heels. I believe they have lost my trail by now, yet I would like to ask you for a temporary sanctuary. At dusk I shall be gone again." If any voice had ever deserved the term 'velvet', it was his, but underneath the softness steel was hiding.

" 'course", said the black-haired man and realeased the grip on his weapon. "We know how to keep the bastards off."

Again the quick smile as the man sat down at the hearth. "And this 'we' would be...?"

"I'm Hern, and that's my wife Hert," he said as he closed the door. He didn't dare to ask for the stranger's name.

"A pleasure. These hunters are quite the nuisance, especially with the Dawnguard rising again. I'm actually on my way to the Rift, to dispatch the trying fools. Some tasks are better done by yourself lest you only produce more troubles. You have my gratitude for your hospitality." He looked at Hern. "I think I remember your name from somewhere..."

The Nord allowed himself to relax a little bit. "Stonehills, I guess. Pretty near your castle. Some fifty years ago, shortly after we were turned, I returned and...well, had some issues to settle with the folks, y' know?"

The other man suddenly laughed. It was a pleasant sound, and his face completely changed from a devil's mask to an almost human expression except for the long fangs flashing in the firelight. When his laughter ended again, his smile lingered. "Oh, young bloods. It is hard to recall the quarrels of your mortal life when it is long beyond you, such as mine, but ah...sweet nostalgia. Sometimes I wish I could go back where you are, when everything was still simple and exciting and new. Forgive me...my thoughts tend to wander." And as quickly as it had come, the joy vanished from his face. "You were sloppy, though."

Faster than the two lesser vampires could react to his sudden change, he thrust his right hand forward. A ghostly blade flickered into existence out of thin air and buried itself in Hern's chest, right over his heart, undisturbed by flesh and armour. The Nord died, never knowing what hit him.

Under Hert's horrified gaze, the conjured sword dissolved and reformed in the Volkihar's hand. One of his eyebrows rose in a questioning motion: Fight or flight?

As an answer, her hand fell to the hilt of her axe, but suddenly the man was standing in front of her. The fingers of his - former empty - left hand crushed her throat and the half-formed battle-cry within as he lifted her effortlessly in the air. She stared at him in terror while her hands slapped against his wrist in an desperate attempt to break his grasp - she didn't need to breath but it hurt.

He clicked his tounge, clearly disappointed. "And that's why the lesser blood-lines can never reach the strength of mine. Too stupid." Almost as an afterthought, he added "Hail Sithis", and with a casual flicker of his wrist he broke her neck.

_I outright refuse to write non-Volkihar vampires with Dawnguard appearance, they look so ugly. The idea came to me when I did this quest as allmighty vampire-overlord-dragonborn-volkihar and they weren't licking my boots as the ought to._

_Review?_


	9. Trap

_AN: This is based on a quest in Oblivion. Didn't get really good but yeah._

Boreal Stone Cave was small and dark and damp; water sloshed around my ankles while I sneaked through the only corridor that lead farther down. It could easily be turned into a trap; one determined person was enough to seal the long, narrow passage.

Finally it opened into a larger room. I cast a glance inside, still mostly covered by the passageway. A white-haired man, clad in leather armour, was kneeling in the water with his back to me.

Well. This probably meant I would be the trapper. It would be easy enough to hit him with a spell or a dagger to the back, but Runellius wanted him in prison, not dead, so I stood up and coughed politely.

The man - no, mer - whirled around, stood up and drew his sword in one fluid motion. I could see an open chest behind him.

The Dunmer didn't seem too surprised to see me. "Congratulations. I had a feeling you would catch on sooner or later. Leaving that journal behind was a stupid mistake on my part. I saw you enter Olav's Tap and Tack before I could get there, and I knew that I had to sneak out of Bruma somehow. It was only a matter of time before you or Carius figured it out. No matter. After I've killed you, I won't need my vampire hunter ruse any longer."

"You can still come quietly back to Bruma."

"Either I fight you now, and have a chance at freedom, or I surrender and rot in a city dungeon. I prefer the chance for freedom."

I hadn't expected anything else. "Last chance, Raynil."

"Yes, I suppose it is. Well, then, we've talked enough. Only one of us will walk out of here alive this day. Good luck." He raised his sword.

I flashed him a full fanged grin. "Good luck to you. Have you ever fought a real vampire?"


	10. His

The smoke was hanging deep over Skingrad. The few people on the street had to press wet handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses but were still coughing. On the one occasion it had rained since the siege had begun, the ash staining the air had been washed down onto the city, dying everything grey. The vineyards were probably ruined - not that anyone had cared as the Scamps had come and slaughtered the horses, the sheep, and all who couldn't run fast enough.

The only positive aspect of the ash and smoke, was that it hid the sun more effictively than any cloud. True, it darkened people's mood even further. But at least the count was able to walk the battlements of the castle and look at the _offense _himself. The gate was shaped a little bit like an eye, he mused in the back of his head, with a huge orange pupil surrounded by a thin yellow rim, in an Oht-shaped arch of black stone.

Oblivion was staring.

Janus Hassildor was staring back. And he would _not _back down from the Deadlands giving him the Evil Eye.

The glowing of the gate seemed to intensify a bit and the count's grip on the railing tightened. For a moment he worried he might shatter the stone, but dismissed the silly thought almost immediately. Although...it would be good to have an outlet for the frustration gnawing at the vampire's patience.

The gate blinked - no, it _winked. _The lightning sizzled louder, the humming increased, and when the golden-red eye curled into a spiral, a handful of Daedra appeared in front of the portal. Their minds had not yet recovered from the transportation when a volley of arrows hit them and struck two Scamps and a Xiviali down. But a pair of heavily armoured Dremora and a lizard-like Daedroth survived almost unharmed and charged at the guards.

The count barely felt the sting of his fangs digging into his lower lip.

The Daedroth's claws found the gut of a guard through the man's flimsy chainmail and Janus Hassildor's lightning found its nerve system through the beast's thick scales. Two more bolts of electricity killed the Dremora, then it was over. For now.

A few men began to care for their injuried comrade, the others looked for the source of the saving magic. There was no way they could recognize their count from such a distance, but he still felt some kind of satisfaction as his supernatural hearing caught their cheers.

He looked at the staring gate again. Then he turned around and gestured for the guards to open the castle's gates.

"My lord", said Hal-Liurz, worry in her raspy argonian voice. The count had almost forgotten she was with him. "You are not thinking of joining the fight, are you?"

"My dearest steward, this is my city. I have to defend it just as everyone else." _His _city. _His_ people. They belonged to _him._

Dagon could try and take them - but only over Janus Hassildor's bloody ashes.


	11. Delicate

_AN: Have I ever mentioned I love biology and minutions descriptions?_

Pale fingers close around a small phial. Carefully, the delicate glass is raised to cool lips. They part to let the strange liquid slide past sharp teeth onto a tongue used to a single flavour. Tastebuds are activated, send a shockwave to the brain, which instinctively responses with the hasty command to spit the substance out again. Too late; the mouth is forced close by conscious will and the mixture is swallowed, glides down a long throat, searing, burning like liquid fire as it touches the dead flesh.

Once down, the liquid meets the last meal, but it doestn't stay. It passes the walls of the stomach, spreads in the tissue like a plague, running along veins with an incredible speed, a mad dash of fire tearing its way up to the arms, into the fingertips, down the legs, leaving a sensation of unbelievable heat in its wake.

_Life._

The wave of scorching sensation spreads, reactivates dead cells like an insane wake-up call. The reanimated tissue answers with sending a wave of information to the new, dazzled brain. The kidneys take up work again, the guts try to digest the mass of cold blood that fills them, the liver asks for a task. But above all, from the toes to the transforming eyes, the scream for oxygen. For a few terrible moments the lungs do not know what to do with the air inside them until instinct is activated.

Stale air out.

Fresh air in.

The first shaky breath is taken just as the strongest muscle in the body convulses. It strains to squeeze its contents together, then releases. The first heartbeat. Once the heart has taken up work, it seems as if it wants to make up for the long period of stillness by never stopping again, running forever. Its beats echo like the thunder of a fleeing horse's hooves in the whole body.

The mind is flooded with information. Every organ, every limb demands, informs, requests, asks, tells, but until just now the only sensation that has been felt was thirst. Basic needs are threatening to overwhelm the mind till the brain is ready to perform its tasks. Slowly conscious thought returns. Order is restored. The mind is finally capable to take in the sensation entering the body: the weaker hearing, the pathetic smelling, the insufficient vision, the warmth of his flesh.

_Human._

He grins with a mouth full of blunt teeth as he looks up, at a man dressed in fine clothes standing at the bed with a bitter expression on his old face, and it hits his him as pale red eyes meet brown ones that had just been their mirror. He is human. A complex system of delicate units with blood thumping relentlessly through the warmth that is his body.

He is prey.


	12. Pearls

His eyes open, and even before he realises he's awake, he begins to run. The rustling of the leaves under his feet is the only sound in his world, black-white and with edges sharper than knives.

He runs.

Time passes, but he does not slow. He cannot name the powerful, relentless urge that drives him on. All he knows is that he has to obey it until-

Movement!

He strikes without thought or hesitation and as he watches the red pearls fall, everything makes sense.


	13. Thalendar

_AN: Actually, this is a couple of one-shots from 54, but hey, it's about vampires. Drandraste and the Gang have had all my inspriation's attention for the past weeks...stupid Dragon Age..._

The Predator

He had not thought it would feel that way. So intense, so wild, so undignified, so primitive and animalistic, yet so very appealing. From the first exciting moments of the hunt, picking up the prey's tender smell of fear, to the chase, to the oh so satisfying end with his aching teeth buried in a delicate throat. The delicate iron taste was still lingering on his tongue.

He looked at the unconscious girl slumped against the cave wall. Her dark hair hid her face and the marks that covered her entire neck. Maybe he should feel sorry for this.

Maybe…

The Change

It was a strange feeling. Not uncomfortable, not painful, just … strange.

He looked at the grey skin that covered his thin, sinewy arms, ran one clawed hand down the ribs that protruded sharply from his chest and lower to the hard muscles of his abdomen. He tried to close his lips around his fangs but found the long teeth too hard to cover. He touched the big ears pressed flat against his skull and the long hair drained of all colour.

Then he unfolded the wings, bony, awkward, ripped things. Slowly, beat by careful beat, he rose into the air.

The Unknown

The smell of carnage reached them long before they saw the mutilated corpses. The scent of blood and death tickled his nose, danced on his tongue, made his teeth itch and his mouth water. It took all his willpower to ignore the wish to tear out his companion's throat and drink her blood until nothing was left in her body.

She didn't notice something was amiss for some time until she saw it. For the first time, he saw her shocked. "What happened here?"

He had to swallow a few times to wet his dry throat. "I have no idea."

The Decision

"You are Falion of Morthal." It was a statement, not a question.

Still Falion felt obliged to nod. "And you are…"

The mer ignored the question. "They say you are an expert on vampirism."

Ah, they were slowly getting closer. Of course he had immediately spotted the tell-tale signs, the pale skin, the dark eyes. "And you are a vampire seeking for a cure, aren't you?"

The mer hesitated, then shook his head. "No. No, I do not think so." And with these words he turned around and the snowstorm swallowed him as if he had never existed at all.

The Threat

"Repeat that," he snarled. "Go on, repeat that. I dare you" His teeth were bared in a ferocious threatening gesture.

The Altmer took a small sip of the blood-wine mixture in his goblet, savouring the delicious liquid, then answered: "If you and your pathetic group of fledglings are not gone within next night, I shall have to make you go."

"You insolent pup!" roared the vampire. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

The Altmer raised an elegant eyebrow. "Why, no," he said, his voice as serene as a frozen lake. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

The Suspicion

Marks. Marks everywhere. Necks, wrists, half-hidden under long hair but still found if they were searched thoroughly enough. Vendors, smiths, orphans, beggars, farmers, warriors. In the tavern, the guardshouse, Men, women, children, old, young, it didn't matter. Even on herself Irileth had found two tiny wounds, like she'd been pricked with a needle. They nearly vanished in the dark skin of her throat.

She knocked on the door to Balgruuf's rooms. "My Jarl?"

"Yes, Irileth?" answered a tired voice.

She almost flinched as she saw the pale, drained shell of a man. "My Jarl, I know who the vampire is."

The Attack

He had been in battle before, but this wasn't battle. This was madness, carnage, animals tearing each other apart, he tearing himself apart to keep the urge to feed at bay. Blood hung in the air like fog on an autumn morning, tickling and teasing his itching teeth. Between the swings of his axe he had to swallow constantly to keep his mouth from overflowing with saliva, and it took all his willpower not to lick the delicious fresh hot blood off his gauntlets. Then a severed jugular sprayed blood directly onto his lips, and the world drowned in crimson.

The Exposed

Sunlight was blinding. Sunlight was burning. Sunlight was screaming. Sunlight was pain.

"There! There it is!"

Where was what? Shadow? Blood? Oh, he needed blood, needed it now, delicious hot cooling sating blood, where was it? Where were they hiding it?

"Catch it!"

Catch the cat, catch the ball, get away, don't let it fall, catch the prey, resist the call…

"It's running away!"

Running. Chasing. Chasing was fun. So much fun. Maybe he could chase them, wouldn't that be nice?

Where was the blood?

"Kill it! Burn the vampire!"

Oh, they shouldn't be so mean, he was all alone.

The Reunion

Four little arms wrapped around Thalendar's waist. He laughed as he looked at his daughters. "Girls," he scolded, although with a grin on his lips. "I have not been gone for long, and I am back now. So, what do you want to do?"

"Spend the day with you, papa!" shouted Lucia.

"Go swimming in the river!" said Sofie.

"Play Hide-and-Seek, and Tag!"

"Look at the Khajiit caravans!"

"Go to Riverwood, till Morndas!"

All activities to be done in full sunlight. Thalendar hid his grimace, grabbed small Lucia and whirled her through the air. "Alright. What do we do first?"

The Mutation

"Hold still, Thalendar," commanded the Dunmer.

"Argh. Ah! Auri-El curse this mangy cat with the blight and the cur and – gah! Why does this hurt so much?"

"Here, drink another potion – eww!"

"It doesn't help! It burns!"

"No no no, don't scratch. By Azura, how did this… actually, I don't want to know."

"What? What?"

"Better if you don't know either. But why are you complaining about J'zargo? It's your own fault!"

"Mine? Why mine? How dare y-ah!"

"Because no vampire in his right mind would test out a flame cloak spell on himself specifically designed to kill the undead."

The Weakness

It seemed so innocent. A bright, friendly thing, dancing merrily over the logs and lighting his face with its warm shine.

He hadn't felt the fire's bite since Skuldafn. Maybe… maybe it wouldn't be so bad this time. Thalendar reached for the small flame, his hand slowing as it came nearer and nearer to the warm orange glow. He could feel the heat on his fingertips, the skin itching as if he was standing at noon in the Alik'r desert.

Thalendar withdrew his hand, staring into the flames that were his worst enemy as if his gaze could extinguish them.

The Revelation

It hadn't taken her long to notice. He never said it openly of course, but she'd seen more than enough of his kind to recognize one quickly.

He showed it to her, though. In one bandit camp, he grabbed a fleeing Bosmer by her long hair, yanked her towards him, brutally overstretched her neck and bit deep in her throat. He didn't let the bandit drop to the ground until she was bled dry, but his red eyes never left hers, seemingly daring her for a protest, a challenge, a judgement, any kind of reaction.

She didn't give him any.


End file.
